In the Eyes of Death
by ReluctantSlashFan
Summary: Sam's been found out, Wandel's friends know he killed Steve and now they want revenge. Just something written to put the boys through misery. After BUABS.
1. Chapter 1

**Nobody recognizable is mine. Just letting you know. This is being re-updated because my page breaks disappeared and I am fixing it. Just another note for you guys/gals to know…**

_**Supernatural**_

He never thought it'd end like this. His brother bleeding, slipping away, too far gone to help him. And him, staring down the barrel of a .45, pointblank range, weaponless.

"Don't do this," he begged raising his hands.

"Good-bye," the gun totter said and pulled the trigger...

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

**Four days earlier...**

Pulling into town was like entering another episode of _The Twilight Zone_ in Dean's opinion. Something weird was going to happen he just didn't know what exactly. Sam searched all night, throughout the entire drive and bar visit, but found nothing. At the moment, Sam was conked out in the passenger seat, falling asleep after promising that there was nothing there. Dean wanted so much to believe his brother, but a gut feeling told him they missed something.

He pulled up to the only motel in the dilapidated town. The quaint place had seen better days with its peeling paint, grimy windows, and lack of customers. Dean could tell it would be quite a place with a little TLC. Besides, growing up he learned to not be too picky about where he stayed. _"As long as it's a roof over our heads, there's no point in complaining about it." _he could almost hear his dad say. It wasn't as painful to think about his dad as it had been, but it still hurt nonetheless.

Dean pulled up to the office, a place with windows and a glass door that were full of so much grime that they looked like they were painted the sick greenish-gray. Dean stole a glance at Sam, who was still dozing, breath fogging the glass, and got out of the car.

He was afraid to see his brother alone, afraid the charms Bobby gave them wouldn't work and he'd get possessed again. Just thinking about the past couple of days made Dean's arm twinge with pain. He was due for another bandage change; his last one was at Bobby's before they left.

Inside the office it smelt like musty carpet and old people. The walls were once painted a white color but age, water stains, and smoke seemed to change them yellow. Behind a faded wooden desk sat an old guy, seventy at the most, with two hearing aids, a pair of thick glasses that made his eyes bug out, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. He was reading a book, squinting even with the glasses.

"Excuse me," Dean said stopping inches from the desk. The guy didn't look up, just kept reading his book. He absentmindedly tapped the cigarette in an ashtray and stuck it back in his mouth. "Sir," Dean said a little louder. The guy still didn't respond. Finally, Dean reached out, tapping the guy on the shoulder.

"You stealing from me," the guy exclaimed causing Dean to jump back.

"No, I need a room," Dean said loudly running a hand down his face.

"What?" the old guy said cupping one of his ears.

"A room," Dean nearly screamed.

"A room? Jeez, Sonny Jim you don't have to yell," the old guy said getting a shocked look from Dean. "So, you honestly need a room? Man, no one has stayed in this motel in ten years." The old guy took his glasses off, cleaned them on his shirt, shoved them back on, and dug under the desk. When he emerged his cigarette was nearly out and he was holding a very old, much worn guestbook.

He put the cigarette out in his ashtray and said, "You care about paying in cash? It's just I don't trust the damn government and their machines. Aliens is what brought them to this world."

"That's fine," Dean said loud enough that he hoped the guy heard him. It took all his self-control not to start laughing at the guy's paranoid mumble jumble.

"Great, room's sixty bucks a night," the old guy replied lighting another cigarette. The smoke curled through the air, stinging Dean's nostrils. He had never been a big fan of cigarettes, other things were an iffy, but cigarettes just weren't his thing. He tried it once, when he was twelve, and nearly choked on the smoke. It wasn't until he was sixteen that he was introduced to the stronger stuff, and that was quickly taken away when he was nearly killed on a hunt.

"Kid, you gonna pay or just stand there," the old guy's chain smoking voice cut into Dean's thoughts. He jerked back to reality, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. His arm protested in pain, but he ignored it. He opened the wallet and looked down at the freshly won four-hundred dollars in a poker game mere hours before hitting the road for the small town he was in.

"Two nights then?" the old guy asked when Dean threw one-hundred-twenty dollars onto the counter. The old guy collected the money and stashed it in a metal cigar box. He then pushed the guest book at Dean and a pen. "Sign the book."

Dean took the pen in his right hand and signed: _Dean Roth._ A Van Halen song started circling around his head and he had to refrain from singing it. Before he could pull his hand away, the old guy grabbed it with a strength Dean didn't think he had. He pulled Dean close, his cigarette smoke hitting Dean full force in the face, and said, "You watch out, Sonny Jim. This town isn't as safe as it seems. Remember that." He then let Dean go, backing up to get the keys off a long line of twelve keys.

"Room six is the only room with two beds," the old guy said and held the key out to Dean. Dean didn't quite register what he was saying; he was still slightly stunned by what the old guy had said. "You okay, Sonny Jim?"

Dean snapped back to earth and took the key. He half expected the guy to grab his arm again. Then what the guy said finally hit.

"How do you know I have someone with me?" he asked curiously. He turned to look out the window, which was so dirty it made the room dimmer, and was surprised the old guy could see Sam at all.

"Have a nice day, Sonny Jim," the old guy merely replied. "The name's Stan, you need anything come to me." and he waved Dean out of the office, taking a puff on his cigarette. Still reeling at Stan's behavior, Dean backed away from the desk. He hit the door, making him jump.

Embarrassed he turned around and pulled open the door. He headed toward his car, Sam awake and looking at the old motel with a look of caution and disgust.

"This is the only place you could find?" Sam asked as Dean got in the car to move it closer to their room. Dean didn't reply as he moved the car. "Dude, are you listening?"

"What?" Dean said looking over at his brother.

"Never mind," Sam muttered. Opening the door as soon as the car came to a complete stop. He shouldered his computer bag and headed to the trunk. Dean tried to shake off the weirdness from Stan's words.

"Dude, you gonna open the trunk or do you need a formal invite," Sam said opening his door and making him jump. Sam stepped back saying, "What's gotten into you?" he looked slightly hurt that Dean reacted to him like that. Almost as if his brother still believed he still had Meg possessing him.

"Nothing, it's just something that guy said."

"What guy?"

"The one in the front office. He…he said something weird. It's probably nothing." Dean didn't want to scare Sam anymore than he was. He had never been possessed himself, but by the looks of it, it had to suck. And it definitely left his little brother in a state of panic.

"Okay," Sam replied, voice thick with skepticism, but he didn't press the point. Dean silently thanked whoever was listening for his brother's silence. _What's the worse that can happen in a small town like this_, he thought having no idea that he just condemned himself to a whole lot of bad luck.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

Frank and Danny Bridges had known Steve Wandel since they were kids. Frank had been Steve's best friend, had been there when Steve needed him the most. Especially after Steve's wife Annie died. A werewolf had attacked her, turning her into one of them. Steve didn't have the heart to kill her, so Frank stepped up and did it for him. Or, at least he thought he did. He had fired an entire clip into Annie's heart, thinking it'd kill her, but it just pissed her off.

Danny, who was into all that supernatural crap before he even got into hunting, pulled out a silver letter opener and drilled it into Annie Wandel's heart, killing her instantly. Afterwards, Steve had been forced to raise their only daughter, Laurie, all alone. Danny and Frank had helped as much as possible, but hunting had driven a wedge between all three and they just weren't as close as they used to be.

They hadn't heard from Steve in a while and decided to visit Steve, see if he was okay. Laurie had just gone off to college, planning to study history, and he had never been good at being alone. Steve had been so glad that Laurie wanted to go to college, though; his biggest fear was her becoming a hunter like him. They took one look at Steve's house and knew for a fact that something was up.

They entered the place, glass and papers everywhere. Both followed the trail to Steve's den, running into their friend, who was dead. Frank was frozen in the doorway as Danny ran in and checked him over. He declared that Steve had had his throat sliced open.

Frank snapped back to reality and rushed to Steve's computer, knowing for a fact that his friend had had surveillance cameras all over his house. Hunting had made Steve paranoid and Frank knew how cautious the guy was.

Problem was, whoever killed him broke the computer's tower. Danny crouched next to the broken tower, coming to the obvious conclusion that the thing was totaled.

Frank was pissed, but he still had enough sense to take out his cell phone and call one of his buddy's. He told the man that Steve had been killed and told him to spread the word, try to get answers. After the phone call, both brother's collected Steve and took him out to the backyard. Giving him a hunter's funeral, they left his charred body and headed out of town.

That had been two days before hand. Frank had been searching the maps around Steve's house, trying to figure out where his murderer could be. He came across a small town called Twin Lakes and thought maybe he had gotten a clue.

He left his brother asleep at his computer, the kid needing the sleep after two sleepless nights, and headed toward the town. He stopped, first, at the local gas station. Behind the counter was a young guy, a few years older than Danny, with a beard and dark hair. He was helping a burly truck driver, giving him directions out of town. When the trucker left, Frank stepped forward.

"Hey, I'm Agent Fitzgerald," Frank said extracting a fake ID badge. He was using the name of one of the authors his dad used to read to him. He liked using book authors as his aliases, it made him feel closer to his dad.

"What can I do for you, Agent," the guy asked as Frank put his badge away.

"Well, I heard from reliable sources that some strange men may have come into town. Do you know anyone like that?"

"Um… no. Unless, you count the drunk guy a few days ago."

"How many days?"

"Like four days," the clerk replied scratching his head. "He went north in a blue bug…"

"What did he look like?" Frank asked taking into consideration the fact that Steve's house was north.

"Um… he was tall, hazel eyes. Maybe in his early twenties. He had shaggy brown hair, smoked menthol. He then came in the following day with a shorter guy."

"What'd he look like?" Frank recognized the description, but he wasn't sure if it was who he thought it was.

"Stockier than the tall guy, with short, brown hair. He was older, probably twenty-eight. His eyes were green, I think. He told the other guy to go wait in the car while he talked to me. I told him where his buddy went and then he left, taking a couple of Twix with him."

"Anything else?" Frank asked starting to form a picture of who he was dealing with. The two boys sounded so familiar, two kids he had met only once in his life.

"Yeah," the clerk announced snapping his fingers. "The stocky guy called the tall guy Sam. That's about it. Does that help?"

"That helps a lot," Frank said and thanked the guy. He exited the station, stopping by his car. He pulled out his phone and dialed his brother's number. After three rings Danny answered sounding groggy.

"Yeah, I know who killed Steve," Frank said slowly, trying to keep his anger in check.

"Who?"

"Remember that guy we met about ten years ago. He had those two boys…?"

"John Winchester?" Danny asked curiously.

"Yeah."

"I thought he was dead?"

"Yeah, but his boys ain't. One, possibly both, of them killed Steve?"

"Which one for sure?"

"Sam," Frank replied as he got in his car. "Look, they've got about a three day head start on us. Call Spencer, tell him to track down those boys, and I'll pick you two up in a few."

"Okay, Frank," Danny said and hung up. Frank snapped his phone closed and threw it in the seat next to him. He started his car and sped out of the station's parking lot. He had a hunter to find and kill.


	2. Chapter 2

**Still not mine…**

_**Supernatural**_

Dean leaned his head against the head board of his bed, trying to decipher what Stan meant by his comment. _"This town isn't as safe as it seems." _the words circled through his head, making him scratch his head in curiosity. He decided to let it slide for a moment, looking around the room they were in.

The room was painted a bright orange, to match the paint the bedspreads were bright orange, the door to the bathroom orange, the table and chairs by the door were orange, counter tops orange; everything in the room was orange, except for Dean and his brother. Dean hated the color orange; it reminded him of his first teacher, Mrs. Butler. She was such a bitch, always yelling at him to do things he didn't want to. She wore orange all the time, and her being so round it made her look like an actual orange. A human orange. That was what Dean called her the day before he moved. _"You're nothing but a fucking human orange, you bitch."_

The water turning off sent him back to planet earth. He looked over at the bathroom door in time to see his brother walk out wearing a towel.

"Finally, you girl. I had to take a piss for like twenty minutes," Dean said hopping off the bed. He pushed past Sam into the bathroom, closing the door. As he did his business he heard Sam call, "What did that guy say?"

"Nothing Sam," Dean replied flushing the toilet and zipping his pants. He headed to the sink, washing his hands. It wasn't out of habit-Dean hadn't washed his hands after going to the bathroom since he was six-but to stall.

"Come on, Dean. Very few things freak you out and what that dude said freaked you out. So, tell me," Sam said. Dean dried his hands, still stalling. He didn't want to talk about what Stan said. _The old guy was a crazy SOB anyway_, he thought. He opened the door and stepped back a half dozen steps. Sam was standing in the doorway, hair dripping onto his shirt, looking slightly annoyed.

"Look, he didn't say anything important so quit asking," Dean nearly snapped. He pushed past his brother, heading toward the door. "I'm going to get us some lunch, what do you want?" he picked up his jacket and opened the door.

"I don't care," Sam replied wearily after a few moments of silence.

"A greasy pork sandwich then," Dean replied smirking. Before he closed the door, Sam called, "That's served up in a dirty ashtray, right?" Dean just shook his head and left the comment hanging in the air.

It wasn't hard to find the diner in the small town. It was in the middle of town, right next to a stamp store. It was called EATZ, which annoyed Dean slightly. He couldn't stand it when people tried to be "cute" and rearranged letters or change them entirely. _We're adults for god sakes. Start acting like it._

Deciding to not complain, people had to make a living somehow, he pulled up in front of the diner and got out of the Impala. "I'll be right back, Baby," he cooed to the car and headed into the diner.

The place was small, probably only fit twenty people. At the moment there were three guys sitting away from the door at the last table. They all had their heads together, speaking in low voices. He didn't like the look of them; something in his hunter instincts told him to watch those guys.

He continued to the counter, throwing a couple glances over to the table of guys. The oldest of the three looked up at him, their eyes locked and he smiled slightly. There was something so familiar about the guy, but Dean couldn't quite put his finger on it.

"What can I getcha, Sweetie Pie," a woman's voice said causing Dean to break eye contact with the guy to look at her. She was at least forty, her name tag read 'Roxy', and her bleach blonde hair was up in a messy bun. She was probably a knock out in her time, but age had made her look worn and tired. That didn't, however, stop Dean from attempting to hit on her, though.

He put on his best "lady-killer" smile and said, "What's the special?"

"Sweetie, I was flirting with boys way before you learned to walk," Roxy replied and Dean felt his smile wilt. She handed him a menu and said, "You look at that and I'll come back." She then picked up the coffee pot and headed over to other three guys.

Trying hard not to pout, knowing it was a long shot anyway, he looked over the menu. He was contemplating a double bacon cheeseburger with a side-order of chili fries or a hamburger with extra onions and pickles when he felt something stick into his back. He froze, praying it was a gun and not something else.

"Hey Dean," a male's voice said making Dean's stomach clench. That's all he needed, some sick-o behind him.

"You gonna shoot me," he started really hoping that was the case, "or are you just happy to see me?" he was proud of himself, he kept up his cocky attitude without betraying his disgust of what it might be.

"Neither, smart ass. You're bait," the guy said and dug the gun deeper into Dean's spine. Dean couldn't help but sigh in relief; he had really thought it was something else. "Now, you're gonna slowly get up and walk with us outside. We don't want to alarm Roxy's pretty little head, now do we?"

"I guess not," Dean murmured. He slowly got to his feet just as Roxy asked, "Not hungry, Sweetie?"

"No," Dean replied keeping his voice calm and collected. "I may come back later. After I talk to my friends."

"Okay, hon," she said and headed back to the kitchen. The other two guys got to their feet, following Dean and the older guy outside. They reached the small parking lot, Dean ordered to stop walking.

"Sam won't fall for any of your plans," Dean said slowly. The older guy was still behind him, still holding the gun to his back. Suddenly it was gone, leaving Dean free to attack. Except, before he could, the guy said, "You better pray he does," and slammed the butt of the gun into the back of Dean's head. Everything went black before Dean fully registered what happened.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

Sam was triple checking the town for a possible hunt, knowing when Dean got back he would ask, when he heard banging on the door. He got to his feet, unconsciously rubbing the burn mark on his right arm, and walked toward the door.

He opened it to see an older man, probably in his seventies, standing right outside the door. Before Sam could ask him why he was there, the guy pushed past him and said, "You need to collect your stuff and come with me."

"What?"

"Did I stutter," the old guy said. Sam was surprised he heard him; the guy had two hearing aids in his ears. "I turned them up, that's why I can hear you."

"How did you know I was thinking that?" Sam couldn't determine if the guy could read minds or not.

"Of course I can't read minds, you dolt. Look, we don't have time for this crap." And without further invitation he started collecting what little things Dean and Sam managed to unpack and shoved them into Dean's bag.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I am trying to help you. You're brother has been nabbed by three guys who not only hate you… You know what, never mind that now."

"Don't 'never mind that now' me. What do you mean Dean has been nabbed? As in, taken? As in he's in trouble?"

"Yes, and you can't help him if you don't help yourself? So pack your crap and come with me." and he kept packing. Once all their stuff was jammed into Dean's bag, he collected both bags and headed out the door. Sam still had his eyebrow raised, but in order to get answers he had to follow the old guy. So, he jammed his laptop back into his bag and quickly followed the guy out of the room, closing the door behind him.

He followed the old guy back to the office, trying to wrap his head around what was going on. Once the door to the office was closed, the old guy locked it and led Sam to the back of the building, into a dark living room.

"My name's Stan, by the way," the old guy said clicking lights on. The room came into focus, a brown room with dark green furniture and shelves and shelves of books. Stan threw the Winchester's bags onto one of his couches and continued into another room

"Okay, dude…" Sam started following Stan into a small kitchen.

"It's Stan. Don't call me dude," Stan interrupted and started mumbling about 'disrespectful young people.'

"Fine, Stan. What the hell is going on? Who has Dean?"

"Kid, this isn't going to make your day, I can guarantee that," Stan replied evasively. He had his back to Sam, staring out his kitchen window.

"Just tell me."

"Fine," Stan muttered and walked toward the table-a small, square table in the middle of the room-and sank onto one of the three chairs. He kept his eyes on the floor and said, "Possession isn't as fun as you might think, right Boy?"

"No it's not…" Sam cut off, "How the hell did you know?"

"When the body is put through that, it leaves emotional scars. It also leaves consequences for the people who live through the exorcism," Stan replied ignoring Sam's question. "You see, you were possessed by that demon and that demon killed someone." Sam felt sick to his stomach when Stan mentioned the death of Steve Wandel. He wasn't in control at the time, but the mere thought of it made him think what could happen if he'd ever go dark side; especially to his "risk everything for Sam" big brother.

A vivid memory of Bobby asking them about Steve hit Sam. Dean had whole-heartedly denied knowing anything about Steve. Sam knew Bobby didn't believe them, but since the older hunter cared about the Winchesters like they were his own kids, he went along with the lie. Something told Sam that lie didn't hold up as greatly as Dean wanted. And that's when it hit him. "Are you telling me that Wandel's friends have Dean?"

"Not as stupid as you look, Winchester," Stan muttered getting to his feet. Sam went to ask how the guy knew his name, but before the words were out of his mouth he heard someone hammering on the door.

"They're here," Stan whispered rushing into the living room. He was back in seconds, shoving both duffle bags at Sam. "Go down that hall," Stan continued pointing to an area Sam didn't notice before, "and hide in the last room."

"What…?"

"Just do it," Stan barked and pushed Sam toward the hallway. Sam nearly tripped over his feet, but managed to stay standing. He rushed down the hall, feeling like he was eight-years-old again, and hid in the room Stan indicated.

He heard the door open, and Stan say, "You need a room?"

"You know damn well we don't need a room," a gruff voice said. One that Sam recognized from almost a decade before. That's when he knew who they were dealing with.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

**1997…**

Sam wasn't sure he wanted to go on the hunt. He had math homework, had a science test to study for, and hadn't quite finished the novel for English. But he knew for a fact John was not going to let him stay at the motel, he wanted Sam to learn how to deal with spirits so there was no negotiating. So, with a heavy heart, Sam glanced over at his book bag and followed his brother out of the motel room.

"Relax Sammy," Dean said with a grin. His older brother had not only already dealt with a spirit ("In fact, Sammy, I have helped Dad banish three," his brother had said smugly) but was also looking forward to teaching Sam all he knew.

"How can I relax when tomorrow I could possibly fail my science test…?"

"Sammy, you are smarter than both me and Dad combined. I don't think you are going to fail anything," Dean replied as they both got in the black muscle car.

"Whatever," Sam muttered glaring darkly out the window.

"Tell you what," Dean said quietly turning around in the front seat to look at his brother, "you follow every one of Dad's orders and don't argue with him and I'll help you study for your stupid test. Okay?"

"Don't you have homework," Sam asked curiously. He knew for a fact that Dean would get to it when he got to it.

"Do you want the help or not," Dean responded ignoring his brother's question.

"Yeah, that'd be cool," Sam muttered and Dean turned to face front as their dad got in the driver seat. He was quiet for a while, just staring out the window. Sam could tell the quiet was unnerving Dean and spoke up without thinking. "What's up, Dad?"

"We have a couple hunters joining us tonight, boys," John simply replied and started the Impala. He didn't elaborate, Dean didn't ask, and Sam-doing what Dean asked-kept his mouth shut.

They drove in silence to the graveyard, Sam trying to figure out why his dad would accept help from any hunters. His dad rarely accepted help-save from Bobby, Jim, or Caleb-saying that help meant you had to trust someone else. _"Trust, boys, is something that has to be earned. Not everyone deserves it. That is something you two need to remember."_

John stopped the Impala right outside the cemetery gates, a truck already waiting for them. Two guys sat around the truck, Sam's first glimpse of them. The older of the two was sitting on the truck hood, tossing a knife into the air and catching it. His red hair fell to his shoulders, something most hunters didn't do. He was keeping an eye on a younger guy, around Sam's age, who was taking inventory on their supplies. He, too, had red hair like the older guy-_they could be brothers-_but his was shorter. Both looked up when John shut the Impala off.

"Who are those two, Dad?" Dean asked eyeing both guys cautiously.

"They are sons of a friend. They called and asked if they could help with this hunt. I owed their father, Charlie, a favor. So here they are," John replied slowly.

"Dad isn't Charlie…" Dean started but one look from John cut him off. The look screamed, _"Don't even mention Charlie's death_."

"Come on, boys," John said and got out of the car. They both followed, heading toward the two guys. The older one slid off the truck hood, walking toward the Winchesters. His brother joined him, stopping inches from his brother.

"John?" the older one was eyeing John with the same cautious look on Dean's face.

"Yeah, you must be Frank." Frank nodded then turned to his brother. "This is my little brother Danny."

"Hey. These are my boys Dean and Sam." John gestured to both boys when he said their names. Sam nodded to Charlie's kids while Dean still looked suspicious of the two guys.

"Very nice to meet you, Sam. You, too Dean," Frank said, a small smile playing across his lips.

"Yeah, so let's get this hunt over with," John said breaking up the tense moment…


	3. Chapter 3

**Not mine…**

_**Supernatural**_

**PRESENT…**

Stan unlocked the door, but before he could open it, someone shoved on it. He nearly fell back but grabbed onto the desk counter, catching himself. Two guys burst in. The older one had red hair. The younger one was brunette, darker than the red head, and was very familiar to Stan.

"You need a room," he asked sarcastically, not acknowledging the brunette like a good relative should.

"You know damn well we don't need a room," the red head snapped impatiently. "Where is he?"

"Who?" Stan asked innocently and the red head let out-what sounded like-a growl.

"Uncle Stan," the brunette said softly, cutting off Stan's retort. He looked slightly uncomfortable to be there, almost like the red head dragged him there.

"Spencer," Stan muttered, finally acknowledging his sister's son.

"Touching family reunion aside, we're here for a reason," the red head butted in. "Where is he?"

"Frank, he's not here," Stan said softly making the hunter look slightly taken back. He turned to Spencer who shrugged and mumbled, "I told you he has a freaky, psychic thing."

"Freaky, psychic thing? No, what I have is little patience for you two. I swear Sam Winchester is not here. And I'd advise you to let his brother go, unless you want that little brother of yours to be teeth less." He was looking directly at Frank who was not taken back but angry.

"Leave Danny out of this," Frank snapped.

"I didn't involve him. You did, and from what I heard about those Winchester boys-especially Dean-your brother is in serious horse shit."

Frank stepped toward Stan, towering over him, and got in his face. They were nose to nose; Stan could smell the Skool chew that Frank no doubt used, and said, "You better not be lying to me. If you are, so help me I will be the last face you see." And with that he turned on his heel and stormed out of the office.

Spencer stuck around for a moment, unsure what to do, until Frank called, "Spencer, come on!" He jumped and quickly followed Frank, closing the door behind him.

Stan crossed the room, opening the door a crack to watch a blue dodge pull away from the building. He waited until the car had disappeared behind the corner before closing the door and locking it.

"There gone," he called to Sam once he was back in the kitchen. Sam emerged from the back room, heading toward the table.

"How the hell…"

"…did they find you so fast?" Stan finished for him. Sam nodded, sinking into a chair.

"They live around here," Stan continued. "You two walked right into their open arms. This is their territory."

"You've gotta be kidding me," Sam muttered putting his head on the table.

"Oh, come on. You didn't know. You're not psychic."

"Is Dean…? Is he…" Sam started ignoring Stan's psychic remark.

"Alive? Yeah, he's alive," Stan answered for Sam. "They need him, he's their bait. They assume you'll go after them and then they will kill you…"

"All because some fucking demon possessed me," Sam snapped picking his head up off the table.

"You can't control that. It's just what happens sometimes. But enough about that, we need to work on a plan."

"We? No offense, Stan, but I really don't want to get you hurt. And that guy, that Frank guy, well he could probably hurt you…"

"You know damn well he can. I mean, you did meet him once." Even though Sam suspected Stan had some psychic ability, he was still weirded out about how much Stan knew.

"Yeah," Sam replied trying to sound nonchalant. "Him and his brother. Danny and Frank Bridges. I just didn't know they were friends with Wandel."

"Son, if you knew everything about everyone than life would be boring," Stan mumbled. "Anyway, we need to come up with a plan. They will be back, no doubt they will, and I don't think I can keep them from searching a second time."

"Why can't we go to them?"

"Because they are expecting that. Besides, do you know where they are?"

"No, but you do."

"Yeah, well, I have free will. And I'm using that free will to _not_ tell you. Not until you have a plan that won't kill you," Stan said slowly. Sam went to protest, but the older man cut him off by saying, "He's fine, he'll be fine, they aren't going to kill him."

Sam reluctantly agreed, but he kept escape routes in the back of his mind. The town wasn't that big, it shouldn't be that hard to find Dean. He just had to find a way around Stan and his uncanny psychic ability. _This is gonna suck_, he thought bitterly. Looking out the window, feeling a boiling pile of guilt in his stomach, he wondered where Dean was.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

There was a slow drip falling onto a cement floor. That was the first thing Dean was aware of when he woke up. Then the pounding headache hit, followed by the fact that he was cold, and that the area he was in smelt like musty basement. He couldn't quite remember what had happened to get him there. Then it hit him, like a stone to the skull, and his eyes snapped open.

He sat up, looking around the room. He was in a dank, dark room. The only light was a small window, probably big enough to just fit one of Dean's arms, sitting above his head. The room was entirely cement, the floor full of puddles. Dean happened to be lying in one, which explained the cold.

Someone had taken his leather jacket, blue shirt, ring, his bracelet, his watch, and amulet. That just left him with a gray tee-shirt, his jeans, and no fucking clue where he was.

"You're awake, Dean," a familiar voice said and a light snapped on. The guy was standing in the doorway, at the top of the steps. Dean tried to get up, but the sudden movement made him dizzy. He slid back onto the floor, right into the puddle.

"Where am I?" Dean asked attempting to stand up again. He managed it, using the wall for support.

"Somewhere safe," the voice said. The owner walked down the steps, coming into view. He was the older guy who had knocked Dean out. He still looked so familiar, Dean was sure he had met him before, but he couldn't quite remember where.

The older hunter stopped at the foot of the steps, his hands behind his back, bouncing on the balls of his feet. No matter how relaxed he looked, he was still on alert; attempting to look at everything at one time. His watchful eyes snapped back to Dean and he said, "It has been a while, Bucko…" that nickname struck a chord and he knew exactly who he was dealing with.

"I'm surprised you even bothered tracking me down, Bridges," Dean said softly. The room was spinning again, causing him to slide down the wall a bit. He tried to down play it, to make it look like he was leaning, but he wasn't sure he pulled it off. "After what Dad said."

"Ain't he dead?" the simple question made Dean's fist clenched. He didn't like when random people brought up their dad. Especially scum who was threatening to use him as bait to get to Sam.

"I'd advise you to shut your cakehole about my dad," Dean muttered sliding a bit further to the floor.

"Or what, you'll fall to the floor," Frank said just as Dean fell back into the puddle. With a smirk on his face, satisfied that Dean wasn't about to hurt him, he crossed the room and crouched down next to the young hunter. "Listen, Bucko, I know you're dying to know why you are here."

"I wouldn't say 'dying' but I am a tad curious," Dean replied sarcastically. Now that he was sitting the room was slowing down, the spinning almost gone.

"Well, your brother is to blame, actually. I mean, he murdered in cold blood didn't he?" Dean felt his blood run cold, his stomach clench. He had heard that Wandel's friends were after his murderer, but he had no idea how fast they would find them. Or how they had found out it was Sam… _No not Sam, a demon. He was possessed_.

Instead of admitting to knowing what the guy was talking about, Dean decided to play dumb. "What the hell are you talking about?" Years of experience, years of hiding little emotions from his dad and Sammy, helped Dean keep an emotionless mask on. He didn't need Bridges knowing he got to him.

"Don't give me that bull, Winchester. I know your brother killed Steve, I know he did. The clerk at the gas station, that one right outside of Twin Lakes, told me he saw you and Sammy."

"I'm sure the guy made a mistake. You know that everyone has a twin…"

"Don't give me that twin, shit," Frank snapped belting Dean across the face. The hit made Dean see stars, made the room start spinning again. "It was you and your psycho brother. He killed Steve without a second glance, leaving him dead on his own floor. Didn't take into account that Steve might have a family, might be missed. So, now Sammy must pay."

"You lay one hand on my brother I will kill you," Dean snapped spitting blood onto the floor. Frank just chuckled and got to his feet. He headed toward the steps, turning back to look at Dean.

"You know, Bucko, I've never had a problem with you. Maybe, once Sam's dead and you've pulled your head out of your ass, I might let you live. Maybe." And with that Frank walked up the steps, snapping the light off, leaving Dean by himself in the semi-darkness.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

**1997…**

Dean couldn't stand Frank Bridges; the guy thought he was the god of hunting or something. But, no matter how much he disliked the guy, he had to respect the way he watched out for his brother. Danny Bridges was never out of sight of his brother, just like how Sam was never out of Dean's sight.

Speaking of Danny, he and Sam were walking next to each other, following John. Dean had no opinion of Danny: the kid didn't speak much, kept his eyes peeled for danger, looked like he had more experience than Sam. Dean guessed he liked Danny more than Frank, but the kid was too quiet for his liking.

"So, Bucko, how long you been hunting," Frank asked cutting into Dean's thoughts. Dean held back an eye roll as he said, "Since I've been seven."

"Really, that's cool." Dean could hear the sarcasm in Frank's voice. He wanted nothing more than to belt the guy in the face, but he thought better of it. John hadn't had a problem with the kids, which meant Dean shouldn't.

"How long have you," Dean asked trying to hide the frustration and sound pleasant.

"Since I've been five, so twenty years," Frank replied sounding smug. Dean wanted to smack the smug right out of his mouth; his hands were actually itching to perform the action. Before he could proceed, however, John stopped and said, "This is the grave, why don't Frank and Dean start digging. Sammy; you, me, and Danny can be look out." Dean watched Sam give him one quick look, before nodding.

John dug in the green bag, slung over his shoulder, and handed a shot gun to Sam. Danny had already come equipped with one. Dean wanted to bitch about having to work with Frank, but he knew the response he'd get-_"Act like a child on your own time. This is an important hunt, knock it off" -_ so he held his tongue and took the shovel Frank held out to him.

Both started digging, neither one bothering to read the spirits name. What was the point when they were about to banish it. Besides, Dean already knew who it was, or he was supposed to, John having said it six times before they left the motel room.

"So, Bucko, you still in school?" Frank asked in a low voice, throwing a shovel full of dirt in their small pile. They had dug a good two feet-only four to go-and Dean did not want to chat. He knew John was too busy looking for the spirit otherwise his dad would be snapping at them to quit the small talk.

"Are you, Bucko," Frank repeated. Dean was already getting sick of the nickname he had been christened. He'd much rather be called kid, kiddo, boy, sport: anything besides Bucko.

"Hey…"

Before Frank could repeat the question a third time, and use that stupid nickname, he hissed, "Yes, I am. I have three months left." He then continued digging, for the first time wishing he was doing homework instead of helping with a hunt.

"Senior then. This is your first time through the grade, right?" Dean knew it was an insult; he just wasn't going to take the bait. Instead, he concentrated on digging up the corpse. Since he didn't answer, Frank took it upon himself to continue, "Because it's okay if you needed some extra help in high school, it won't make you less of a hunter."

"Keep talking and I'll make you less of a hunter," Dean muttered trying to suppress the urge to take his shovel and slam Frank in the face with it. Before Frank could reply, John was standing over their three foot hole saying, "Shut the fuck up, both of you."

"Yes sir," Dean said as Frank responded, "Sorry." They continued digging in silence…


	4. Chapter 4

**Still not mine…**

_**Supernatural**_

**PRESENT…**

_Sam stood behind her, tying her hands to a post. "What the hell's going on? What are you doing," Jo snapped coming to. Instead of answering, pleased with his work, he stood to the side of her and asked, "So, what exactly did your mom tell you about how your dad died?"_

"_You're not Sam," she said slowly._

"_Don't be so sure about that, answer the question." She didn't answer so he walked around to face her, sitting on a stool holding a knife. "Come on, it's me." He started waving the knife around her, her eyes watching it. "You can tell me anything, you know that. Answer the question."_

"_Fine," she said bitterly._

"_Fine," he said softly._

"_Our dads were in California, Devil's Gate Reservoir," she started, talking fast just to get it over with. "They were setting a trap for some kind of hell spawn. John was hiding, waiting, and my dad was bait…"_

"_That's just like John," Sam said in a whisper, interrupting Jo's story. "I bet he dangled Bill like meat on a hook." Getting to his feet, he eagerly said, "Then what?"_

"_Then the thing showed up. John got too eager, jumped out too soon. Got my dad exposed, out in the open. The thing turned around and killed him."_

"_Humph, not quite." He knew the comment would get a rise out of her, peak her curiosity._

"_What?"_

"_What? Oh, you see it hurt him. It didn't kill him." Amused, knowing he had gotten to her, he said, "You really don't know the truth do you? I bet your mom doesn't either."_

"_Know what," Jo snapped clearly impatient with the mind games._

_He came up to her left, whispering in her ear, "You see, Bill was all clawed up, was holding his insides in his hands, he was gurgling, and praying to see you and Ellen just one more time." He paused for a brief moment, noting the tears in her eyes. He then continued, wanting to see her cry, "So, my dad killed him. Put him out of his misery like a sick dog."_

"_You're lying," she said trying to hold back more tears._

_ "I'm not, it's true," he started. Then continued in a singsong voice, "My daddy shot you daddy in the heeead..."_

Sam jerked awake, blinking a couple times to get the room to go into focus. He wasn't sure where he was at first, the kitchen unfamiliar. Then Stan said, "You want coffee or are you gonna doze off again," and everything caught up with him.

He rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, holding back a yawn. He looked at his watch, surprised to see that he slept thirty minutes. He was wondering why Stan didn't just wake him up.

"I'm sorry for falling asleep on you," he muttered turning in his chair to see the older guy putting coffee into the pot. Stan shrugged and said, "Don't worry about it. So, what were you dreaming about?" Stan said it so casually that Sam almost didn't detect the curiosity in the man's voice.

"Don't you already know? I mean, you seem to know everything else," Sam replied evasively. There was no point in trying to explain the terror he put Jo through. That she probably would never speak to him again. That he found out that his own father killed some man just so he wouldn't slow him down. No, he'd much rather keep that information to himself, especially from Dean. If his brother ever found out their dad killed someone, no matter the case, he didn't know what would happen. He didn't know how his brother would take, and he didn't want to know. _Dean's been through enough. This would probably destroy him._

So, instead of answering Stan's question, he asked, "When are we going after Dean?" Stan put the coffee back, turning the coffee pot on. He crossed the room, sitting across from Sam. Sam turned to face him, waiting patiently for the old guy to answer him.

Stan took a deep breath and said, "You are very impatient, aren't you?"

"Dean is all I have," Sam replied softly. "I don't want to think of life without him. I mean, don't you have any siblings? Any family at all?" it was a desperate plea, one that Sam was using to speed up Stan's ridiculous plan session; he didn't really expect the old man to reply.

"I had a sister," Stan muttered. He got to his feet, walking over to the kitchen window. He looked out, into the slowly fading sunlight, and continued, "She was six years younger than me."

"What happened to her?"

"She's dead," Stan answered simply. "Killed by her own son."

"What?" Sam couldn't believe someone would murder their own mother in cold blood; couldn't think of anyone who could do that.

"She was turned into a vampire, she was killing people," Stan said softly. "Spencer, named after his good for nothing hunter of a father, used ten years of his life to find her. When he did, well…" Stan cut off, the room almost silent, the coffee pot the only noise. "Now he's helping the Bridges boys track you down. He is good at that, really good. If you two didn't drive into town like you did, I'm sure he would have found you in a few days. Takes after his mother, she was the best damn tracker out there."

"Wait, was your whole family hunters," Sam asked trying to calculate the probability of running into more hunters. _Maybe the entire town is like a hunter's playground. Like a town version of The Roadhouse or something._

"My sister was," Stan corrected turning around. Sam had to admit, the older guy was better than Dean at hiding his emotions. Sam had a feeling he was hurting on the inside, but the exterior was pretty much an emotionless mask. "She started hunting when our parents were killed by demons. She was good at tracking them down, never good at interrogating though. She just wanted the demons back in hell, but she always tried to save the victims.

"She barely trusted other hunters, though. The only one she really trusted (and she _barely_ trusted him) was Spencer. He was one of those hunters with a god-complex. You know the type, right?" Sam couldn't say he did per se. Dean had his egotistical moments, but he rarely thought he was the god of all hunting. But he did know of the type.

"Anyway, the moment Spencer knocked her up he was gone. She had Spencer Jr. a few months later and that was that… Why she named the kid after his father was beyond me.

"But you didn't ask for a life story, did you?" Stan crossed the room dropping back into his chair. He looked across the table at Sam and said, "We will get your brother back. Don't give up."

"Yeah, I know, but sitting here isn't doing much good is it," Sam said without thinking. He knew he should be sympathetic, the guy just revealed that his sister was killed by her only son. And that besides his estrange nephew, he had no other family. But it was Dean; human hospitality went out the window when his brother was involved.

"Kid, going in angry will only get you killed," Stan said slowly, disregarding Sam's rudeness. He pushed himself to his feet, heading toward the coffee maker. He pulled two mugs out of one of the three cabinets in the kitchen, poured coffee in both, and headed back to the table.

He set one mug in front of Sam and then headed to his fridge. He pulled out creamer, grabbed the sugar off the top, shut the door, and laid both in front of the young hunter.

Sam refrained from asking, Stan wasn't about to give him an answer, so he just added the sugar and creamer. He had just put the sugar down when a spoon was shoved under his nose. He took it, stirring his coffee.

"The funny thing is, I am the calmer brother," Sam muttered putting the spoon down. "If you were dealing with Dean… well, you wouldn't be sitting here."

"I know," Stan said quietly.

"Of course you do," Sam said under his breath. Stan merely smiled and returned to his coffee. They sat in silence for a few moments, and then Sam's phone went off making him jump.

"Answer that," Stan said suddenly looking worried. Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket, the caller ID announcing it was Dean.

"Hello?" he answered suddenly cautious.

"_Sammy, Frank Bridges here_," a familiar voice said. Sam's stomach clenched, anger starting to boil throughout his blood. "_You still there_," Frank asked when Sam neglected to respond.

"Where is he," Sam snarled gripping the phone in his hand.

"_Oh, you'll see him soon enough_."

"You hurt him…"

"_Don't threaten me, little boy. You may have grown taller, but you'll always be the five-foot-five scrawny thirteen-year-old I met. Remember our first meeting?"_

"Where's Dean," Sam repeated ignoring Frank's question.

_"He's fine, for now_," Frank replied softly.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"_I'll let you figure it out, Sammy_." And the phone went dead. Sam's hand was shaking, tears were developing at the corners of his eyes, and he felt a sense of loss he didn't think he had ever felt before.

Instead of hanging up his own phone, he turned from Stan and hurtled it at the wall. It broke into a thousand pieces, littering the older man's kitchen floor. Breathing heavily, Sam threw himself back into his chair and snapped, "You better make a plan quickly or I am going to tear this town apart." Stan nodded and took in a deep breath…

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

The basement door opened, the light snapping on. Dean pulled himself to his feet, the room no longer spinning, and watched as a younger red head and a brunette walked down the steps. Dean recognized the red head, but the brunette he had never met.

In ten years, Danny Bridges hadn't changed much. His hair was still cut military short, he hadn't grown much-still around Dean's height-and he was still wary as ever. Dean had a feeling Danny was a better hunter than his overly cocky big brother. The kid followed orders better than his big brother, nonetheless.

The brunette guy was a burly man, maybe in his mid-thirties. He was taller than Dean, probably taller than Sam, too. He also outweighed both him and Sam considerably, but it was all muscle. Dean would hate to be on the receiving end of the man's fury.

"Danny, since when have you begun hanging around with baboons," Dean asked. He couldn't help it, the sarcastic remark slipped out. The burly guy merely chuckled before driving his shovel like fist into Dean's stomach. Nothing broke or cracked, but the air was knocked out of him and he was sent to his knees.

"Cool it, Sebastian," Danny muttered calmly. He turned to Dean, who was struggling to take in air, and said, "Frank wants to see you."

"W…why didn't he… he come down he…here himself," Dean gasped out between weak breaths.

"Just get up," Danny said ignoring the older hunter's question. Dean struggled to his feet, his air coming back in short increments.

When he finally managed to get to his feet, wheezing slightly, his wrist were pulled painfully behind him. He bit his lip as the sudden movement pulled on his shoulder. That was all he needed, his captors to know he already had a weakness.

"What are you doing," he snapped when he felt rope grinding into his skin. It was pulled tight, cutting circulation from his wrist. It was tied in a knot around one wrist, then the other, and then a third time to bind both wrists together. He wasn't about to get out of the binding, no matter how much he struggled, even if he had two uninjured shoulders.

"Let's go," Danny said and led the way up the stairs. Sebastian pushed him, Dean nearly tripping up the steps. Danny spun around and snapped, "Just help him." Sebastian grumbled something unintelligible, but did what he was told.

They all made it up the steps without another incident, straight into a small foyer. Directly ahead of them was a set of stairs heading up to the second floor. Danny didn't spare a second glance at the stairs as he led them to the left. They walked down the short hall to a small living room.

The room had hardwood floors, a water stained ceiling, and a huge, picture window with drawn curtains. Other than a chair, there was no other furniture. Sebastian pushed Dean forward, the hunter tripping over his own feet and landing on his hurt shoulder. He was sure he had bitten through his lip holding in a cry when a flare of white hot pain spread through his arm.

"Damn it, Sebastian," Danny said wearily. "He didn't even do anything to you."

"Look you hired me to help, I'm helping." Sebastian hauled Dean to his feet and threw him into the chair. The burly hunter stepped back, crossing his arms. Danny leaned against a wall, looking anywhere but at Dean. The small group sat in silence for a few moments, then Frank walked into the room and both Danny and Sebastian snapped to attention.

"Knock off the military crap," Frank snapped at both of them. They both followed the order without a question, relaxing back into their original positions.

"Dean, it's been a while," Frank said quietly.

"Yeah, a whole thirty minutes," Dean replied sarcastically. Frank smirked, but said nothing to his remark. He crossed the room stopping inches from Dean. "You didn't tie his legs to the chair?" he was looking at his brother and Sebastian.

Both looked confused and Danny said, "You didn't tell us to…"

"I was kidding," Frank cracked. "I welcome Dean trying to attack me. I kicked his ass the first time, I could do it again."

"Bring it on, old man," Dean said quietly. He may have been closer to thirty than twenty, but he was still younger than Frank.

"Where's Sam, Dean," Frank asked ignoring Dean's comment.

"I have no idea," Dean said quietly. He knew what they were trying to do, beat his brother's location out of him. "I'm surprised, Frankie, I actually thought you had enough brains to find your way around this little town. Of course, stupidity does wear off." He looked up at Sebastian. Sebastian crossed the little space between them and punched Dean in the already bruised face.

The blow caused an array of black spots threatening to overtake Dean's vision, and had blood slowly dripping down the side of his face. He slowly shook his head to clear it. The room burst back into focus, Frank standing back allowing his baboon to attack Dean.

"You shouldn't make him mad, Bucko. He has a temper you wouldn't believe."

"Your Baboon can attack me all he wants, I am not telling you where Sam is," Dean spat his head still spinning slightly. At the 'Baboon' comment, Sebastian slammed his fist into Dean's left shoulder. He couldn't help it, no amount of lip biting would stop it, he let out a cry of pain. At first he thought they would buy it was because of the hit but…

"He didn't hit you that hard. I mean, I hit you harder…" Frank's voice trailed off. He stepped forward, pulling Dean's shirt away from his shoulder to reveal the white gauze that was red with new blood from the re-opened wound.

"What happened here?" Frank let the shirt slide back into place and gripped the wound. Dean bit the inside of his cheek so hard he tasted blood, but he managed to keep from crying out. As Frank applied more pressure he flashed back to his shaggy haired, hazel eyed brother doing the same thing. Meg's words hit him again, _"All that I had to hold on to was that I would climb out one day. And then I was gonna torture you, nice and slow, like pulling the wings off an insect. But whatever I do to you, it's nothing compared to what you do to yourself. I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You're worthless. You couldn't save your dad and deep down, you know you can't save your brother. They would have been better off without you…"_

"Wake up," Frank snarled slapping Dean in the face. He jerked awake, unaware that he'd passed out. He turned blurry eyes to Frank, who wasn't gripping his shoulder anymore. The older hunter was sneering down at him, waiting for him to say something.

"I…I'm not telling y…you where Sam is," Dean stammered trying to stay awake.

"Fine," Frank snapped. He stepped back, allowing Sebastian to take another shot. Dizzy or not, Dean could not let The Baboon hit him again, he wasn't sure how many more blows he could sustain before he blacked out, again.

Time slowed down, something Dean only thought happened in movies. He saw Sebastian coming, could track his every move perfectly. When the guy was nearly upon him, fist raised, Dean pushed himself to his feet and slammed his whole weight into an attack.

Without hands to catch himself, he ended up on the ground with Sebastian. Sebastian was trying to push him off, but Dean slammed his knee into The Baboon's stomach. Sebastian let out a gust of air, stunned.

Dean tried to push himself to his feet, but the rope refrained himself from doing so. Trying plan B, he started dragging himself across the room, hoping to reach the front door before everything calmed down. Before he reached the entrance to the living room he heard a click that made him freeze.

"Keep moving and I kill you," Frank's voice snapped. The older hunter crossed the room, stopping inches from Dean. He stuck the cold barrel of his .45 right to the base of Dean's skull, crouching down next to him.

"That was a smooth move, Winchester," he said quietly.

"I try," Dean muttered bitterly.

"You almost made it out."

"Almost."

"But you didn't."

Before Dean could respond a loud growl erupted out of the room. Frank was gone in seconds, gun going with him.

"What the hell…?" the rest of his words were cut off when a size thirteen drilled into his side. He couldn't be sure, white hot pain was already spilling out all over his body, but he thought a rib might have cracked.

He was coughing, trying to roll onto his side, when he felt a pair of shovel hands haul him to his feet. The sudden movement had his side protesting in pain, had him biting his lip to keep from crying out, and had him momentarily stunned. Sebastian used that brief period to attack him.

He was shoved into a wall, landing on his tied wrists. The rope grinded into them as he tried to stand up again. Before he could get up, Sebastian's had him by the arm. The Baboon swung his arm; the bullet wound practically screaming out loud, and threw him into the floor. He landed on his right side, sending another wave of pain through his body.

He was aware of someone screaming in the background. He tried to push himself up, but pain kept him locked into place. Before Sebastian-_The Evil Baboon_-could attack again, Frank's voice said, "Enough."

There was a set of footsteps and Dean sensed someone kneel next to him. There was some pulling on his wrist and they were free. He would have tried to get up, if he had the strength. Instead he laid there and hoped there was not another vicious attack from Sebastian.

"Danny, since you care so much for his well-being, you take him to the basement," Frank snapped and his looming presence was replaced by another.

Dean felt a pair of hands grip under his arms and haul him up. His body was one big ache, he wasn't even sure if he could help the young hunter with the fifteen or twenty steps to the basement. He was proven right when he sagged against Danny's hold.

"I'm sorry," Danny whispered as he pulled Dean's arm around his shoulder. "We weren't supposed to have hired Sebastian. It was supposed to be Spencer, Frank, and me." They were moving Dean could feel the motion. He was really trying to work his leg, hoping to drill his size ten-and-a-halves into Danny's shins, but it wasn't as easy as it should have been.

"I honestly don't know where Frank found Sebastian. I never met him, honest." A door opened and there was an up and down motion that was making Dean sick. "Look, I never had a problem with you, I could fight for you. Sam is the only one we want dead."

Danny set Dean on the cold stone floor, away from the puddle. He backed away several steps, bouncing on the balls of his feet nervously. He looked like he was about to scurry up the steps. Dean let his head loll against the wall, the room dimming slightly. He took in a painful deep breath and said, "I'd rather die than live without my brother."

Instead of replying, Danny gave Dean a sympathetic look then headed up the steps. The door closed behind him, plunging the room into darkness. The sun was slowly setting; the room was going to be pitch-black before long. _Sooner than necessary_, Dean thought as black spots threatened to overtake him, again.

He was sliding, his body coming to rest on the floor. His vision was swimming in a sea of black spots; he knew he should stay awake. But the effort was just not worth the pain. So, giving in, he slid into unconsciousness.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

**1997…**

The hole was dug, Frank scrambled out of the grave first. He held his hand out to Dean, who slapped it aside and crawled out himself. He crossed the necessary steps to stand next to his brother, watching Frank do the same.

John walked toward the grave, throwing a nervous glance around. Dean couldn't help copying him. The spirit hadn't attacked, which-in itself-was odd. It wasn't until John uncapped the gasoline that a gust of wind blew through the cemetery.

They never saw the spirit appear, but John's sudden ability to fly was enough of a giveaway. He slammed into a nearby gravestone, slumping over motionless. The gasoline slipped onto the grass, slowly spilling out.

Sam dropped the gun, running toward their dad. Dean scooped up the shotgun, following his brother. Gasoline burnt his nostrils as he leaned over his dad. John had blood slowly oozing out of a cut above his eyebrow, other than that he was alive.

Dean shoved the shotgun in his brother's hand, becoming emotionally unattached for the moment to finish the job, and said, "Shoot anything that comes near me." He grabbed the half-empty gas can and ran back to the grave.

Danny was at his side in seconds, a canister of salt in his hands. Both were working fast, a sudden gunshot ringing out behind them. When the gas and salt were poured, Dean pulled out a book of matches. They were barely in his hand when the spirit appeared at his and Danny's side.

It was a woman. She had graying brown hair, dark brown eyes, a pair of matching handprint marks on her neck. Her name came to him seconds before she pushed him back. Penny, Penny Myers.

He slammed into the ground, the air knocked out of him. He struggled to sit up, watching as Penny wrapped her hands around Danny's throat. Both Sam and Frank rushed forward to help, both colliding with each other seconds before reaching their target.

Dean scrambled to his feet as Sam and Frank fell to the ground. He ran to help, but Danny had already raised his shotgun and blasted Penny away. He fell to the ground gasping for breath. Dean sprang toward the grave, pulled out his matches, struck one, and tossed it into the grave.

He didn't have time to watch Penny burn, before she could fully move on she had one more move up her sleeve. She appeared at Dean's side and pushed him again. He slammed into a gravestone next to hers. He lost consciousness.

Seconds later, probably no more than forty, he came to. He heard someone yelling, the voice matching his dad's. He figured his dad and Sam had gotten into it, were arguing over something stupid. Until he felt the prickle of grass against his exposed skin. And that the voice had a couple subtle differences.

He rolled to his feet, head pounding in time with his heart, to see Frank inches from Sam. The red headed hunter was screaming at the top of his lungs. He was stepping toward Sam, who would-in turn-step back. It wasn't until Frank shoved his brother, that Dean sprang forward.

He stepped directly in front of his brother, stopping Frank before he could do anything else. He put on the patented Winchester glare, normally getting some sort of response, but all Frank did was smirk. "Look, little boy, this has nothing to do with you."

"It has everything to do with me," Dean snarled.

"Dean," Sam protested as Danny said, "Frank, come on."

"Shut up," both Dean and Frank said at the same time.

"You don't want to fight me, Bucko," Frank said softly.

"Stop calling me that," Dean snapped and tackled Frank. They both fell to the ground. Dean got two good hits in before Frank kicked him off.

The younger hunter flew back, landing painfully on his back. Frank was on him in seconds, kicking Dean in the side. Pain spread through his entire body, but the older hunter didn't stop there. He pulled Dean to his feet, drilling his fist not once, not twice, but three times into his face.

There were two sets of voices screaming in the background, both merging with each other. Dean ignored them as he tried to throw a punch of his own. Frank caught the fist, bending the entire arm behind Dean's back. He threw the younger hunter into the ground, putting his knee into the small of Dean's back.

"Now this can go two ways," Frank said softly.

"Get off my brother, you freak," a familiar voice said and Frank started laughing. Dean heard the unmistakable sound of a shove and heard Sam land hard, on the ground, next to him.

"I am going to kill you," Dean snapped trying to get up. Frank pushed him back into the ground, the air knocked from Dean's lungs again.

"I don't think…" the words were cut off when the weight suddenly left Dean's back, his hand was suddenly free. He spun around, just in time to see John standing over Frank.

"You touch my boys again," John started looking angrier than Dean had ever seen him, "and I will kill you. If I ever see you again, I will kill you. Do you understand me?"

"He started it," Frank snapped getting to his feet. Behind him Danny was nodding his head, looking beyond scared, his green eyes wide.

"I said," John growled gripping Frank by the jacket, "do you understand me?"

"Yeah, I do."

"Good, now get the fuck out of my face." John pushed Frank to the ground. The hunter scrambled to his feet, barked at his brother to follow him, and they were both gone. Dean got to his feet, holding a hand out to help Sam up.

"Dad I…" he started.

"Don't start. Just clean this shit up and meet me in the car," John barked and stormed away from his boys, toward the exit.

Neither boy looked at each other as they filled in the grave or as they collected their equipment. It wasn't until the walk back to the car that Dean asked, "Are you okay?"

"Me? I didn't just get my ass handed to me," Sam replied sounding irritated.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean snapped. "Besides, I didn't get my ass handed to me."

"Right," Sam said incredulously.

They were silent for a few more seconds, and then Dean muttered, "Seriously, are you okay?"

Sighing, knowing his brother would just keep asking, Sam said, "Yeah, Dean, I'm fine."

"Good, that's good. Because I would hate to have to kill that idiot." When he said it one of his bruises gave a nasty throb. He rubbed his face wondering how much damage had been done, wondering what the teachers would think. _Fucking son-of-a-bitch_, he thought. _Can't I just catch a break once? Not come out injured in a hunt._

"No, Dean, that would be too easy," Sam said quietly. Dean hadn't realized he said the last part out loud. Before they could continue their conversation, they had reached the entrance to the cemetery. John was leaning against the car, arms crossed, glaring down the street where a pair of taillights just disappeared.

"You boys ready to go," he asked popping the trunk.

"Yes," they said in unison throwing the supplies in the back. John nodded, slamming the trunk. Sam headed toward the car, Dean went to follow, but John grabbed his arm stopping him.

"What the hell happened?" he asked in a quiet voice.

"I was doing as you always ask, I was protecting Sam," Dean snapped knowing he shouldn't be angry with his dad, John did nothing to him. Instead of yelling back, John let out a weary sigh and said, "Refrain from doing so in such a violent manor next time."

He let Dean's arm go, but took his face between the fingers on his left hand. He turned the bruised and bleeding flesh from side-to-side. "I'll clean these up when we get back to the motel." He then let his eldest go and trekked back to the car.

Dean shook his head, actually surprised he wasn't getting screamed at for acting so belligerent. Taking it as a small reward, knowing not to count his chicken eggs too early, he quickly raced to the car. That would be his luck, John losing his patients because they had to stay up all night waiting for him to get in the car.

Once he shut the door, the Impala came to life and sped toward the motel. Dean looked out the window. _I'll bet we'll never see those assholes again, anyway,_ he thought leaning his head against the glass…


	5. Chapter 5

**Do I need to say it again? Alright, they aren't mine… There.**

_**Supernatural**_

**PRESENT… **

Spence maneuvered the Impala into a parking spot, right outside the motel office. He knew Sam Winchester was in that building, that his uncle was hiding him. As rare as it was for psychic powers to be passed on between nephews and uncles, Spence was slightly clairvoyant. Nowhere near as powerful as Stan, but powerful enough to sense Sam.

Spence shut the Impala off, he had snaked all of Dean's items from Frank's kitchen. He only promised to track the Winchesters down-of course, his tracking skills weren't exactly needed as the two just happened to pull into town moments before he could use his computer to track their location-he never promised to help kill them.

He pushed the car door open and headed toward the entrance. He knew for a fact that Stan knew he was there, nothing got past his overly intuitive uncle. The door was locked, so Spence decided to pick it. He was kneeling down, extracting his lock pick set, when the door flew open and he was yanked inside.

Instead of meeting Stan, like Spence assumed it was, he was thrown into the desk by a taller, younger guy. It was Spence's first glimpse of the younger Winchester: Sam.

"Okay, I am getting a little sick and tired of asking your uncle where my brother is and not getting an answer. So, you are going to tell me or I'll…"

"That's why I'm here," Spence interrupted the younger hunter's rant. He raised his hands, waiting for the next attack. Sam gave him a look of confusion and caution as he said, "What do you mean?"

"I realize that you had to of had your reasons for killing Steve," Spence said slowly, putting his hands to his sides.

"I was possessed," Sam muttered wearily.

"I know," Spence said quietly.

"And you still agreed to help them," the younger Winchester snapped. "Wow, how low your self-esteem must be if you're willing to help complete psychopaths kill me and my brother."

"I was planning on leading them in the wrong direction, Sam. I was planning on letting you get away, but you two idiots drove into town with no care in the world. And your brother walks into the diner, where Frank, Danny, and I were discussing tactics. You brought this on yourselves, but I am trying to help you."

"Trying to help me? How exactly are you going to help me?"

"I'll show you where your brother is," Spence replied cutting off any retorts Sam may have had.

"What?"

"I am going to show you where your brother is. But, we have to leave now before Uncle Stan comes out here." Spence expected the younger hunter to demand they take Stan, that he wasn't about to trust a stranger like Spence (especially one who had a hand-no matter how small-at kidnapping his brother). What he wasn't expecting was Sam to head toward the office door, calling over his shoulder, "Come on."

Spence followed Sam, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder. He was expecting Stan to dart around the corner, to demand to know where they were going-_as if he doesn't already know_. But he didn't, which made Spence a little uneasy.

He headed out of the door, stopping when he spotted Sam standing next to the Impala. The younger hunter was running his hand across the paint, his face in an almost masked look of awe. He turned at Spence's approach and said, "You brought my brother's car?"

"I thought it'd be a nice peace offering," Spence responded quietly. "The keys are in it." Sam nodded briefly and got behind the wheel. Spence jogged around the passenger side, sliding into the passenger seat.

The entire drive was quiet, except for Spence giving the occasional direction and Sam's grunted response. They reached the house-a small, white two story that Frank and Danny inherited from their dad Charlie when he died. Spence still could not fathom how someone living in a moderately nice house, almost out of an episode of 'Leave It to Beaver', could be as psychotic as Frank. It just baffled the hell out of him.

"This is it," Spence muttered. Sam grunted a response-_such a talkative guy_-and drove past the house. Sam parked the car a block from the house, turned off and pulled the keys out of the Impala, and got out. He headed to the trunk, a silent jingling the only sound he made.

Spence quickly followed, noticing the trunk open wide and an arsenal peaking out at him. He wondered if Sam was about to shoot an entire clip of bullets in him. Instead, the younger hunter extracted his Taurus PT99, stuck it in the waist band of his jeans, pocketed a clip, and slammed the trunk door.

"Fourteen bullets not enough," Spence muttered hoping Sam didn't hear him.

"For Frank it's not," Sam responded darkly. He turned his back on Spence and headed back toward the house. Spence quickly followed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. He just wanted the day to end, for the Winchesters to leave and never show their faces again, and for Frank to stop his crusade. _Like that'll happen_, Spence thought bitterly.

The door was red; Spence remembered when Frank and him were little. Both of them painted the door with a fierceness neither one knew they had. All just to get a lousy five bucks, all just to buy the pocket knife from Jackson Newman. The damn thing broke after a week, but it was still fun to have. Spence wished he could go back to those days. Instead, he placed his hand on the chipped paint, Sam practically breathing down his neck behind him, and pushed the door open.

The interior hadn't changed in the twenty-five years the Bridges family lived there. Charlie Bridges wasn't one who favored change; in fact, he had hated it. Spence always wondered that if Charlie had of bothered to buy a cell phone, if he'd be alive today. _Probably not_, Spence couldn't help thinking as he looked around the familiar foyer. The stairs led up to three rooms and a bathroom, to the right was a closet. Down the hall was the living room, and off that room was the kitchen. And, through the door to the left, was where Dean was being held: the basement.

"He's…" before Spence could finish his sentence, a gunshot went off. He felt a sharp pain, in his stomach, and his hands automatically went to the wound. Blood was seeping through his shirt, coating his hands. He fell to his knees, almost feeling the stomach acid flowing through his veins.

"I really wished you wouldn't have helped him, Spencer," a familiar voice said. Spence didn't have enough strength to follow the voice, but he heard heavy footfalls coming down the steps.

"F…Frank, why?" Spence managed to sputter out.

"Why?" Frank questioned as another set of footsteps appeared, coming from the kitchen. Spence heard, almost like it was through a tunnel, a voice say, "Oh my God, Spencer." The footsteps sped up, stopping next to his head.

"Don't touch him Danny; just take care of our guest. Take his gun and throw him down with the other one." Spence knew Danny would do as he was asked, that Danny would never defy his older brother. So, the younger Bridges stepped over Spence and headed towards Sam.

Sound was beginning to fade in and out, but Spence heard the unmistakable sound of a struggle, and a gun being unloaded. Sam was pulled away from Spence, and yanked toward the basement door. Sound droned out again, but when it snapped back on, Spence heard an awful noise, almost like a fist hitting flesh, and a body hitting the ground.

"Sebastian," Danny protested.

"Oh, who cares," Frank snapped. He must have continued down the stairs, his voice closer. He headed away from Spence, his feet loud than soft. There was a rustle of clothes, Frank announcing, "A clip," and a door opening. "Throw him down there."

Sound faded out again, and when it came back into focus, Frank was over Spence, talking. "…my friend Spencer. I trusted you beyond a doubt. But, you betrayed me…" a gun was cocked, and Frank continued, "Betrayal does not occur without its punishment."

"F…Frank, pl…please."

"Begging is just pathetic," was the last thing Spence heard before Frank's .45 was pressed to his head and the hunter pulled the trigger…

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

Pain: that was the first that registered Dean's mind when he returned to consciousness. He opened his eyes, or at least he thought he did. There was still darkness surrounding him. _Where'd the light go_, he thought figuring Sam had blown a light bulb in the motel room, or had closed the blinds so his precious eyesight wouldn't be disrupted. It didn't take long for reality to catch up with the hunter.

Dean sat up, a little too quickly. Pain shot through his side and the room spun. The darkened room-Dean having no idea how dark could accomplish that-was spinning.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered putting his hands to his head and lying back. The sudden movement of his left arm sent a flare of pain through his shoulder. He hissed in pain, actually glad Sam wasn't there.

"Hello," a familiar voice called out. Dean actually prayed it was a hallucination, that he was suffering from either a fevered delusion or the number of blows to the head had giving him a concussion because there was no way, none, that Sam was there.

"Sammy?" he called quietly.

"Dean," Sam responded sounding partially relived and partially worried.

"How the hell…?"

"Well, not trying to make you feel any worse, but I came to rescue you."

"Piss poor job, Francis," Dean muttered pulling himself up, with the aid of the wall, and leaning his head against the cold concrete. He wished the room would quit imitating a tilt-a-whirl and the nausea would pass. If that happened he'd feel better. Oh, and the pain in his side and arm to go away. After _that_ he'd feel better. Oh, and if his head stopped pounding… _On second thought, if I weren't here I'd feel better_, he thought, his entire body giving one huge throb.

"You don't sound good, Dude," Sam commented. Dean could hear his brother crawling toward him, feeling around in the dark. A hand hit his boot, and Sam knew he had found him.

"I'm fine, Sam," Dean automatically responded. He wasn't alright, far from it, but Sam didn't need to know that. _Besides_, his thoughts started, sounding bitter,_ if Sam's here than my last chance at getting out of here is gone. So, we need a plan, and Sam's not going to follow anything I say if he's worried about my health._

"I'm sure," Sam replied sarcastically, but didn't press the point further. He settled against the wall, his shoulder barely touching Dean's. He couldn't help but notice the slight tension in Sam's shoulders.

"Are you okay," Dean asked his eyes slowly adjusting to the dark. He could almost make out his brother's outline, but nothing more.

"I'm fine," Sam shot back, almost sounding like he was mocking Dean. His hand, like an unconscious movement, rubbed the back of his head. Dean couldn't see it, but he was sure his brother winced.

"Tell me," he demanded needing to know who he had to kill and how slowly they died.

"That big guy, he hit me in the back of the head with a rock, I think. I mean, it was hard enough to be a rock."

"It was probably his fist. You…you got hit by Sebastian. He's one giant mother," Dean muttered as pain shot through his side as a reminder.

"I take it you met him," Sam commented and Dean could hear the smirk in Sam's voice and feel the worried look his brother gave him.

"Briefly," Dean replied slowly. He half wished there was a light so he could check Sam's head, but was also half glad there wasn't, he could feel the dried blood on his face. He knew he didn't look good, and one glance at him would not only convince Sam he wasn't okay, but make him go into mother hen mode so fast Dean's head would spin… again.

"Okay, College Boy, do you have any idea how we are going to get out of here," Dean asked trying to change the subject.

Sam huffed, bitch face probably in place, but said wearily, "I don't even know where here is. I'm assuming it's Frank's basement, but that's as far as I've fathomed…"

"Fathomed?"

"It's a word Dean," Sam snapped and Dean could almost hear his brother's eyes roll.

"Yeah, I know, but I've never heard anyone use it." Another eye roll, Dean could tell, answered his comment. Sam continued with a, "We could attack the next person who comes down those stairs."

"Yeah, because my goal is to be on the receiving end of Sebastian 'The Baboon's' fists again," Dean muttered sarcastically. He regretted the words before they came out of his mouth. He hadn't meant for Sam to know that.

"Where did he punch you," Sam asked trying to just sound mildly curious, but the concern wouldn't be masked. It was practically seeping out of every pore in Sam's body. Waves of it washing over Dean, making him quietly thank whoever was listening for his brother. At least he had someone to care about his well-being. _But I am so not telling Sam that_, he thought knowing the kind of grief he'd get from those words alone.

He realized, accompanying a near panicked call from his brother, that he had been quiet a long time. He drew in a breath, pain becoming like a nagging, attention seeking child, and said, "I was hit in the stomach; he knocked the air out of me. It hurt." Half truths were better than outright lies. Dean seriously doubted Sam would see it that way. _Exactly why I will refrain from telling him until we get out of here._

_ "_I'm surprised they didn't try to get you to tell them where I was," Sam muttered trying to fill the silence.

"How'd you get here?" Dean changed the subject after a few seconds hesitation. They were not going down that road, not yet. Maybe after they got out, kicked some major ass, and had a few beers. But, before then…

Dean expected a huffed reply, maybe a bitchy comment like, "I don't think ignoring your health will help at all." What he didn't expect was Sam to go quiet, almost like he was shutting down. "Sam?" Dean said quietly.

"I'm tired," Sam announced. "God knows what these psychos have planned for us. A good hour of sleep may be the difference between getting out of here or not." He was babbling, something he did when he was trying to hide something.

"Sam…" no answer.

"Sam," Dean tried again and still got nothing. "Sammy, talk to me." Silence enveloped the basement. Dean knew that Sam was hiding something, something to do with how he got there. And he intended to find out what, even if it took some prying into 'chick flick moment' territory. _Oh please, don't let it resort to that_, Dean thought feeling wrong just thinking about it. _Man, Sam is rubbing off on me. Pretty soon I'll be brooding in the dark, listening to Emo rock, wondering why my life sucks._ Suppressing a shiver, Dean hoped he would never become that. _Never, ever, ever…_

Dean sat in silence, listening to the old house creak and his brother move every couple of minutes. It wasn't until Sam's breathing evened out, his head lolling onto Dean's shoulder, that Dean allowed himself to relax, ever so slightly, and allow his body to succumb to the exhaustion he suddenly felt. As both brothers slept, they had no idea that they had someone watching them. That someone was having second thoughts about trusting his brother. That Danny Bridges was coming up with a plan to help them.


	6. Chapter 6

**I own nothing…**

_**Supernatural**_

Many, many, many things had caught Stanly Morrison by surprise in his seventy-plus years. The day his parents died, the day he discovered his psychic abilities, the day he found out his sister was turned into a vampire, the day he found out she died… many things. None of them took him by surprise quite as much as Spencer's life force suddenly just blinking out.

Stan had come up with the plan, the plan that Sam go with Spencer. That his nephew was too good to be shot. He would be a good ally, he would help Sam, Sam was safe. And he, Stan, would be there in a flash to help.

Stan had just stepped out of his house, was on his way to his beat up pick-up, when he felt the pain in his stomach. He grabbed hold of the mirror before he could fall to his knees, wondering what had just happened. He couldn't tell at first, just felt the tightening getting worse. Then he knew. He knew why he felt wrong. Something had happened to Spence, something bad. Stan opened the pickup's door, hopped into the bed, and took off. He was halfway to the Bridges abode when he just felt nothing. No pain, no discomfort, nothing.

Pulling up to a phone booth, one a couple blocks from Frank's place, he jumped out of his truck. He raced to the booth, pulling a couple quarters out of his pocket, and skidded to a halt in front of the phone. He put the coins in the slot, dialed the number he had known for a couple years, and waited for the familiar answering voice. What he got was the voice mail, "_You've reached Spencer, leave a message after the beep."_ The phone beeped, Stan hung up and picked the phone up again. He put two more quarters into the slot and dialed the number again. He knew, deep down, that something was not right with Spence, but he still hoped his nephew was just not near his phone.

After the answer machine picked up four times, after Stan used every coin he had in his pocket, did the older man finally accept that Spence was not okay. That his nephew wasn't hurt, wasn't in captive, but dead. He didn't allow himself to cry, not yet. He had a couple of boys to save.

He headed back to his truck, starting the engine. He had to figure out who he was about to call, knowing that a seventy year old chain smoker wasn't about to do the Winchesters much good. He just hoped they could handle a couple of days on their own, hoped that Frank wasn't so hell bent on revenge he killed them flat out, and prayed he found someone that could help before it was too late.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

Sam actually thought Frank wanted revenge that he wanted to kill him. Instead, he just left them in the basement, for three days. Dean had suspected he wanted them to starve to death, whining that the last thing he had eaten was a breakfast burrito the day they drove into town. Sam knew, for a fact, that Dean was just whining to cover up how nervous and scared he was getting. That was until he started growing steadily paler and weaker as he continued to bleed from both head and shoulder wound.

To Sam's relief, both had finally stopped bleeding. He had made a mental note to yell at Dean later. _If there is a later_. At the moment, he was letting his brother doze on his shoulder, hoping his gunshot wound wouldn't get infected. If Frank decided to let the Winchesters starve to death, like Dean predicted, an infection would make that plan a tad problematic. _Oh, you are such a optimist, Sam_, Sam chastised himself.

The door opened, light quickly cut off by a hulking figure, and two people started descending the stairs. Sam shook his brother awake, blurry green eyes looking at him then at the two figures.

"Hey, look, they finally decided to do something," Dean said pushing himself to his feet. Sam quickly followed, ready to catch his brother if he fell. Dean, probably on sheer stubbornness alone, managed to keep himself standing. Both brothers watched as Frank and Sebastian stepped off the last stair.

"I've come up with a plan, guys," Frank announced, clapping his hands together and ignoring Dean's comment. He looked excited, almost like a girl who was asked to the prom. _Man, I've gotta stop hanging out with Dean_, Sam thought wondering where the odd comparison came from.

"Don't get too excited, Frankie, you might wet yourself," Dean muttered getting a glare from Frank. Sebastian moved forward a few steps, but Frank held up his hand. He stopped in his tracks, cracking his knuckles instead.

"Don't," Sam whispered at his brother. He didn't need to see his face, to know he was giving Sebastian the patented _I'm-Dean-Winchester-and-I-dare-you-to-bring-it-'cause-I'll-kick-your-ass_ look.

"Smart move," Frank responded before grabbing Dean and pulling him away from Sam. The younger Winchester knew for a fact, if his brother wasn't as injured as he claimed to not be, Dean would never have been taken by surprise like that. Instead, he barely had time to try and pull himself out of Frank's grip, before the older hunter had a gun stuck to the side of his head.

"Now, Sammy, you are going to walk up those stairs nice and slow. If you try anything, I'll shoot your brother. You understand me?"

"Leave him alone, Frank. It's me you hate, not my brother," Sam said trying to flash, what Dean called, the "Puppy dog" look. All the good it did, Frank just cocked the gun and pushed it further into Dean's skull. "Okay, fine." Sam pushed past Frank, exchanging a quick look with his brother before he started ascending the stairs.

Sam heard Sebastian following him, Frank and Dean right behind him. Frank called up the stairs, "Take a left, and stop in the threshold." Sam kept going, stopping in the doorway of a barren living room.

He was pushed from behind, by Sebastian, hard enough to send him into the floor. He picked himself up, turning around to see Frank walk into the room with his dazed brother. The only person missing, besides the now dead Spencer, was Danny. Sam wondered where the younger Bridges brother was.

"Now, Sammy," Frank started, pushing Dean to the floor. He left the older Winchester there, crossing the room to stand next to the younger one. He grabbed Sam's arm, making the appendage go numb in seconds. "I am sure you never took into account the fact that Steve had a family…"

"Look, Frank, I wasn't myself…" Sam started knowing nothing good was about to happen. He just hoped it was over soon, and that they let Dean go. If he had to go down for Meg's hunter killing crusade, Dean should at least deserve to get away.

"Oh, let me guess, you were possessed? You were hidden away in your mind while a demon controlled you," Frank guessed shaking Sam slightly.

"Yeah," Sam managed to get out. The shaking making his fist sized knot, on the back of his head, throb.

"Liar," Frank screamed throwing Sam into the ground.

"Sammy," Dean called, but was cut off when something-quite possibly a ham sized fist-slammed into him. Sam scrambled to his knees, just in time to see his brother try to shake his head. Blood was slowly dripping out of his nose.

"I'm okay, Sam," Dean said wiping the blood from his face. He didn't look okay, not even close, but now was not the time for Sam to bitch about his brother's many masks.

"I heard about the psychic crap," Frank snapped grabbing Sam by the hair and hauling him to his feet. "I heard about how you are one of these demonic soldiers in this upcoming war."

"So, you've been talking to Gordon," Sam spat out, wondering how much hair Frank was about to rip out.

"Gordon's got nothing to do with this, kid," Frank said pushing Sam away from him. "He may have told me a couple things, before you sent him to jail. He may have even told me what you were capable of. But I didn't believe him, not after the kid I met so long ago. Hell, I actually thought someone else killed Steve until I talked to that clerk at the gas station a few towns over from Twin Lakes, the gas station that was only a few hours from Steve's house…"

Sam vaguely remembered the clerk, the one who claimed he stole a forty from the fridge. The one who said he chucked the bottle at his head. The one, according to Dean, said he was smoking. Now that he thought about it, he could vaguely taste the menthol on his breath.

"So, Sammy," Frank continued bringing Sam crashing back to reality, "before I kill you. I've decided that Dean deserves a little punishment, too. You know, for taking your side. Hell, I'm not even sure he didn't help you…"

"Dean had nothing to do…" Sam started, but Frank elbowed him in the stomach. All the air left Sam's lungs with a whoosh, bringing him to his knees.

"Watch now, Sam," Frank whispered kneeling next to the younger hunter, pointing his gun at Sam to keep him still.

Sebastian pulled Dean to his feet, the older Winchester wavering a few seconds. Before he could find his balance, Sebastian threw his entire weight into a tackle, sending Dean slamming into the ground.

"Not so great, watching someone you love get hurt, is it?" Frank asked as Sebastian slammed his fist into Dean's face. "Did you know Steve had a daughter?"

Sam remembered Meg reading the letter, her voice mocking each and every word Laurie Wandel had written. Then she put on some show, making it seem like she was so sad that she killed some poor girl's father. Instead of sharing his knowledge of Laurie, Sam instead watched as Sebastian pulled Dean to his feet. Dean tried to fight back, even took a swing, but Sebastian caught his hand and pulled the hunter's arm behind his back.

Dean cried out, as he was brought to his knees. Sebastian kept pulling on Dean's arm, the bone popping out of socket. Another cry from Dean and the big guy threw Dean into the floor.

"Leave him alone," Sam snapped trying to help his brother. Frank grabbed his arm, pulling him back into the ground.

"Now, now Sammy, are you about to deny Seb his fun?" Frank asked grabbing the young hunter's hair again to keep him from trying to get up, again.

Sebastian kicked Dean in the ribs once, twice, three times. The third time, the older Winchester flew in the air a few inches, slamming back into the floor with an audible huff of air. Sam knew his brother was struggling to take in a breath, a couple hacking coughs tearing through him.

Sebastian went to hit the young hunter again, but Frank said, "Enough." Sebastian looked slightly disappointed, but followed the order without a question. He left Dean on the floor, still struggling to take a breath, unable to move.

"It's your turn, Kid," Frank said pushing Sam away from him, again. He got to his feet, backing away from Sam.

"Get up, Sammy," the older hunter said.

"I was possessed," Sam begged, looking into the older hunter's cold stare.

"Get up," Frank spat his hand clenching the gun tighter.

"Let Dean go," Sam tried to bargain.

"GET UP!"

Sam got to his feet, glancing over at Dean. His brother wasn't moving, blood slowly leaking down his face. Sam always believed Dean'd be there, always ready to help him. He never thought he'd have to stare down the barrel of a .45, held by some complete stranger. There was no missing either, it was pointblank range.

"Please," he begged raising his hand, "don't do this."

"Good bye," Frank said giving Sam a nasty smile, and pulled the trigger…

Sam closed his eyes, expecting the BANG he heard to enter his flesh. Instead, he heard a body hit the floor. Another BANG exploded, followed by a second body hitting the floor. Sam opened his eyes, seeing Frank on the ground, blood pouring out of a chest wound. A few feet away, laid Sebastian. He had a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

Sam half expected Dean to be sitting up, a hidden gun in his hand, but a quick glance at his injured brother told him all he needed to know. Next, he thought it was Bobby, that Stan had gotten a hold of the experienced hunter and brought him there.

"It was me," a familiar voice said causing Sam to spin around. Standing in the kitchen's entryway, was Danny Bridges. The young red head looked on the verge of tears, looking down at his dead brother.

"Why?" Sam whispered not able to look at either brother-dead or alive-anymore.

"Take your brother and go," Danny said evasively. "I'll clean up here."

Not even bothering to ask again, Sam crossed the room. He knelt next to Dean, who was just coming to. A pair of glassy, green eyes were looking at Sam in confusion and, if Sam didn't know better, close to tears.

"I'm fine," Sam said before Dean could ask. His older brother nodded and closed his eyes again. Very carefully, hoping that none of his brother's ribs were broken, he helped Dean up. A hiss of pain escaped Dean's lips, but he kept the cry Sam knew wasn't far behind at bay.

"L…let's get…get outta here," Dean whispered through clenched teeth and in between breaths.

"You said it brother," Sam muttered taking almost all of Dean's weight.

"Wait," Danny called causing both brothers to turn, slowly, around. The young red head was standing a few inches from Sam, holding out his tan jacket.

"I thought you'd need the keys, which happen to be in the pocket. Also, your gun is in one of the pockets, too." Sam took his jacket, nodded his thanks, and continued towards the door.

"Why are people crazy," Dean muttered as Sam opened the front door.

"Because, they are so unpredictable," Sam replied trying to be careful as he helped his brother down the three steps from the door. They headed down the sidewalk, towards the car. The car that happened to be a block away.

"How the hell…hell are we going to…to get out of here," Dean whispered sounding like he was about to pass out again.

"The Impala is close," Sam responded feeling his brother lean into him more. Sam was now supporting all of his brother's 174 pounds.

"Close?"

"Like right there," Sam muttered stopping by the car. Dean opened his eyes a crack, looking at his baby.

"How?"

"I'll tell you once we get you looked at," Sam replied helping his brother into the car. Dean's face screwed up in pain, but he kept any cries or hisses to himself.

"W…we c…can't go to the h…hospital," Dean said quickly, a cough breaking through his control. As much as Sam hated to admit it, Dean was right. How were they supposed to explain this without admitting to authorities that the attackers were dead? Not to mention that Dean had a rap sheet as long as Stephen King's book_It_.

"Don't worry, Dean, I have an idea," Sam muttered and jogged around the car. By the time he had the Impala started Dean was already dozing off again. Sam just hoped his plan wasn't about to kill his brother.


	7. Chapter 7

**Thanks for reading, drop me a comment if you can, and see ya in the next story. I still don't own 'em…**

_**Supernatural**_

Stan had a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, ashes falling onto his desk, as he flipped through his book of contacts. Three days and he had come up with squat. His contacts were either dead, pissed at the Winchesters (courtesy of their father), or had no idea who they were. Stan was quickly running out of people to call, and for once in his seventy years he actually wished he had a computer to search for more help.

He flicked his ashes in an ashtray, turned a page in his leather bound book, and was about to call the last name when there was a knock at the door. He was caught by surprise, not expecting anyone to show up. He put his cigarette out, walked around the desk, and headed toward the door. He unlocked it, revealing the two boys he was about to save.

As banged up as Dean had been when he first rode into town, it had nothing on how he looked now. He was bleeding out of his nose, a small wound above his eyebrow, and out of various cuts on his face. His shoulder was covered in blood, the material of his tee-shirt drenched. He wasn't awake, Sam supporting his weight with some difficulty. Stan knew neither boy had eaten since the morning they entered town, both looked pinched and pale (Dean paler than his brother).

"You look like hell," Stan commented stepping back to let the two guys in.

"Can you help him," Sam asked ignoring Stan's comment. He walked through the office, towards Stan's added-on apartment. He lowered his brother onto the couch, turning around to face Stan.

"What happened to him?" Stan asked already knowing the basics. He could imagine the hits Dean had taken, just to keep his brother safe. He would have done the same for his sister in a heartbeat. _Hell, I would have become a vampire for her if I could_.

"He was beat to hell by this really big guy…"

"Sebastian," Stan muttered heading toward a closet. He opened the door, pulling out a first-aid kit.

"You know him," Sam said quietly. Stan merely glanced at Sam, a 'you're kidding me' look on his face. "The psychic thing, right?" the younger Winchester looked mildly embarrassed. In return he received a 'no shit' glare. The older man set his kit on his coffee table, kneeling next to Dean's still form.

"I think I'll start with the easier wounds first," Stan muttered opening the kit and pulling out some gauze. He was never one to keep his kit particularly full, but something in the back of his mind kept telling him to do just that. Now, he figured out why that was.

Silence engulfed the room while Stan worked on Dean. He cleaned all of the hunter's cuts, making sure they were clear of blood before he bandaged them. He could hear Sam behind him, pacing back and forth. Could feel the younger guy throwing glances at him, could almost see him gnawing on his nails. He'd hate to see the younger Winchester if anything worse were to have happened to his brother.

Once all of Dean's face wounds were cleaned, Stan started on the shoulder wound. He could already tell it was going to need stitches. Lucky for Dean, Stan was good with a needle. Unfortunately, the older man had no sutures to stitch the hunter, so Dean was going to get stuck with just that: a needle.

"Sam, can you hold him up for me?" Stan asked as he pulled himself up, settling on his couch. The younger hunter was at his brother's side in seconds, pulling him into a sitting position. The sudden movement had Dean stirring, something agitating his arm.

"I think his right shoulder was dislocated," Sam said quickly.

"Of course it was," Stan muttered. "We'll pop it back once I stitch up his other shoulder." The older guy extracted a pair of med scissors from his kit and carefully cut around Dean's tee-shirt. Once the sleeve was out of the way, lying bloody on the coffee table, Stan got his first glance at the wound.

It was inflamed, the first sign of infection. That was all he needed, the kid getting an infection. The psychic pulled out a bottle of alcohol, pouring its contents all over the wound. Dean hissed in pain, stirring more than before.

"You may need to hold him down," Stan said as he pulled out needle and thread. Sam nodded, a look of determination on his face, and tightened his grip on Dean's arm. He was careful not to do any more harm to the dislocation. The older guy poured alcohol on the needle, sterilizing it to stop any bacteria from getting into the wound. _Lord knows when the last time I used the damn thing_.

Stan worked quickly, stitching up Dean's skin. The younger guy kept moving every time the needle entered his skin. Sam was mumbling inaudible words of comfort, trying to calm his clearly agitated brother. Finally, after a few moments, Stan cut the thread and set the needle on the table.

"Okay, let's deal with the dislocation."

Sam held his brother as still as he could; watching as Stan-with strength the younger hunter never believed the older man had-used his right hand to hold the arm still and his left hand to knock the bone back into place. Dean's eyes snapped open, a cry of pain escaping his lips.

"He hurt anywhere else," Stan asked getting to his feet. He pulled a pack of Winston's out of his pocket, shaking one out. He put the smoke between his teeth, stashing the rest back in his flannel. His lighter was in his hand in seconds, the smoke lit. The orange of the tip glowed brighter as Stan took a drag.

"He was kicked a couple times in the ribs," Sam replied trying to mask his disgust at the chain smoker. Stan could care less what the kid thought of him, it was his damn house and he'd do whatever he pleased in it.

He laid his cigarette in the ashtray, set right on the end table by the couch, and lifted Dean's shirt. Before he could run his hands across the hunter's ribs to make sure they weren't broken Dean whispered, "Hey, hey, Stanly, I don't roll that way."

"Believe me kid, if I rolled that way you wouldn't be my type," Stan replied before returning to his inspection. He was glad to see that the kid's ribs were bruised, not busted, and stated that Dean Winchester was a lucky SOB.

Stan stood up, grabbing his cigarette and sticking it in his mouth. He took a long drag on it, watching the two Winchesters talk amongst themselves. He mumbled something about making the something to eat and disappeared into the kitchen.

He slipped out the back door, closing it with a silent click. Stan lowered himself onto the stoop, taking another drag on his cigarette. He looked out in the horizon, blowing smoke toward the setting sun. He flicked ashes onto the ground, remembering how Spence's mom had begged him to stop smoking; she always told him that cigarettes could kill him. Stan never believed he'd outlive both her and her son.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Stan took one last drag on his cigarette. He threw it to the ground, standing up and blowing smoke into the air. He headed back into the house, figuring he'd better make those boys something before they raided his fridge: especially the older one.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

Orange was beginning to become Dean's least favorite color. Pink was winning out on the damn color and Dean hated pink with every moral fiber of his being. He had bugged Sam for a week, actually begged, for them to leave; to find a new case, to do anything besides lying low at Stan's motel. Sam had replied, "_Take the time to heal, please, for me."_ Then he flashed the puppy dog look and Dean stopped asking so much.

It had been ten days, his bruises were fading to yellow and his ribs didn't even hurt anymore. His shoulder wound was healing without infection, the dislocation wasn't even bothering him anymore (as far as Sam knew) and he was ready to go. He just prayed, after over a week of worrying, Sam would finally let up on the worrying and let them go hunting again.

At the moment, Dean was sprawled across his bed, head hanging off the edge, watching Gumby. He was waiting for Sam to return from getting lunch. He had protested to no ends about letting Sam go by himself. He did not want a repeat from West Texas. _"Do you honestly think Bobby would give us these charms if he didn't expect they'd work,_" Sam said not in his pissy Sammy voice, but to put Dean's mind to rest. So, Dean let him go, and just sat on his bed worrying and thinking of ways to convince Sam to let them move onto a new hunt.

The door opened his brother's footsteps and the smell of food filling the room. Dean sat up, the blood rushing from his head to the rest of his body making him briefly dizzy, and turned to Sam.

"Dude, what took you," Dean asked getting to his feet. He flipped the TV off, throwing the remote onto his bed. He crossed the room, sitting at the table. Sam laid the food on the table, sitting across from his brother.

"I ran into Stan on my way here. He was cleaning the room next door, asked how you were doing…"

"Oh, okay," Dean said pulling his food out of the bag. He opened the Styrofoam container and looked down at the bacon cheeseburger settling amongst lettuce and surrounded by French fries.

"How you can eat that stuff is beyond me," Sam commented opening his own container, which contained a cob salad.

"I ain't a rabbit, that's how," Dean replied around a large bite of burger. His brother rolled his eyes but didn't say another word. They ate in silence, Dean still trying to come up with the words that would convince Sam to let them go on to the next town.

Before he could say anything, however, Sam said, "I texted this reporter from a college, after reading this strange article about this hunted campus."

"Hunted campus, huh?" Dean tried to sound nonchalant, but ended up sounding a little too eager.

"Yeah, and I thought, you know, since you're getting tired of this town…"

"When are we leaving," Dean asked shoveling fries into his mouth, hoping if he finished eating fast they'd leave as soon as possible.

"Tomorrow," Sam replied picking at his salad.

"We could go now."

"Stan is burning Spencer's body tonight," Sam replied quietly. He had finally told Dean how he had gotten to Frank's house, how Spencer had died trying to help Sam. It made Dean feel slightly sorry for the guy, but not as much as Sam. The man helped kidnap him, didn't exactly lift a finger to get Frank to stop, hell he hadn't even really seen the guy's face.

"So, he finally went and claimed the body," Dean said suddenly not so hungry. He put his burger down, picking up a napkin. He wiped his mouth, waiting for Sam to reply.

"Yeah, he did." There were many comments Dean wanted to say, many jokes he could have made, but he held his tongue. His brother didn't need him sounding like an unsupportive ass right now. _Maybe later_, he thought making a mental note.

"So, tomorrow then," Dean said nodding slightly. "Okay, that's fine." They continued to not eat for a few more minutes, and then they decided to clean up. Sam muttered something about taking their leftovers and storing them in Stan's fridge, leaving Dean alone in the room again.

The older hunter settled on his bed, grabbing the remote. As much as he liked Stan- the older guy was actually pretty informed about the supernatural even if he didn't hunt it- he really just wanted to leave. But if Sam wanted to stick around for Spencer's pyre funeral, then they would stick around for the funeral.

_Until then_, Dean thought. _I'm going to watch Gumby and think about this new hunt_. He flipped the TV back on and became once again emerged into the clay show.

_**SUPERNATURAL**_

Fire made everything brighter, everything warmer, unless it was a pyre funeral. To Sam everything went cold and dark and always made him think of his dad's funeral. Just like that funeral, Dean just stared into the fire with a stony mask on his face. Unlike their Dad's, however, Dean wasn't fighting tears. He was indifferent to Spence, Sam knew this, and he really had no emotional reason to miss him. So, why force him to grieve.

Thinking of grieving made Sam look across the flames; Stan had his hands in his pockets, watching the flames burn down. He wasn't crying, not really, but he was still hurting. It was his nephew, he had to feel something.

After the funeral, Stan invited the boys inside for a few beers. It was the magic word for Dean, who hadn't had a beer since before Sam was possessed. Just thinking about the possession made Sam dread the conversation they'd eventually have to have. Of course, getting Dean to talk about his feelings was about as easy as yanking someone's heart out of their throats.

"So, you two are heading out tomorrow," Stan muttered handing both boys a beer. He settled at the table, lighting a cigarette, not opening a beer himself. Sam found it odd that the older man would smoke like a chimney, but wouldn't let a single drop of beer enter his body.

"Beer screws with my psychic thing," Stan said so only Sam could hear. Raising his voice he said, "So, tomorrow?"

"You already know, Stan," Dean muttered taking a swig of his beer.

"Yeah, but to be all knowing is just a pain in the ass," Stan replied taking a drag on his cigarette. Sam smiled slightly, taking a sip of his beer. They sat in silence for a bit, just thinking of their own things. Then Dean brought up werewolves and Stan and he began swapping stories. Dean sharing their last hunt with a werewolf while Stan told him a couple his sister had shared with him. Sam just listened, the discussions becoming a big part of their stay.

After three beers-five for Dean-Sam and his brother headed back to their room, to get to bed, both planning to be gone before eight the day before.

Dean fell backwards on his bed, kicking his boots off. Sam watched him, sitting at the table. He wondered if Dean would be up to talking now, with a few beers in him.

"Dean," he started, but was greeted by a round of snoring. Shaking his head, wondering how many other ways his brother could unconsciously get out of talking, Sam got to his feet. He pulled the comforter off his bed, threw it over his brother, and kicked his own shoes off. He lay back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling for a few moments.

His mind wandered, back to when he was possessed. Steve didn't deserve to die, Jo didn't deserve to be knocked out and tormented, and definitely Dean didn't deserve to be knocked out, beat up, and shot. None of them did, and Sam knew he wasn't to blame but something kept nagging at the back of his mind. He wondered if he had asked Dean to come with him to get those burgers, if his brother would have been there, if Meg would have been capable of possessing him. _Maybe, maybe not_, he thought figuring the last thing he should be doing is dwelling on the past.

He snapped back to the present, the past like a crushing blow to his already guilt ridden stomach, and turned to look at his sleeping brother. Not only did Sam himself-with the aid of Meg-beat, shoot, and knock out his brother, but a group of guys who wanted revenge on him also did the same thing to Dean. _Save a bullet wound_, Sam thought thankful for that.

Glad his brother was alive, knowing he wouldn't be able to survive if his brother had died because of him, he flicked off the light. If he kept letting his mind wander he would never get to sleep, and it was important to Dean to hunt something. Rolling his eyes at his brother's restlessness, knowing he wouldn't want him any other way, Sam drifted off to sleep.

END…


End file.
